10:00 pm - it's official: i'm old

Today is the first day of summer vacation.

Usually, I'd be outside by now, running barefoot through sprinklers, planning movie marathons with friends. There’s a lightness to summer that I’ve always loved, a certain wild joy in knowing that for a few months, I get to just be.

But today, I lie still.

For nearly three hours, I just stared at the ceiling, watching how the shadows from the window danced across the white paint, letting the silence wrap around me like a weighted blanket. I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t sad. I was just... processing.

Because I’m a senior now.

A senior.

The word used to sparkle. For years, I imagined this moment with excitement, picturing myself on top of the world, confident, buzzing with purpose. But now that it’s here, the sparkle feels duller, like the final glimmer of a firework before it disappears completely.

And I keep asking myself: Why am I so scared?

Isn’t this what I’ve been working toward for all these years? Isn’t this the path to dreams fulfilled, to independence, to that mythical finish line everyone keeps talking about?

But today, it hit me. Becoming a senior isn’t just about moving forward. It’s about letting go.

And that’s what terrifies me.

Because becoming a senior means losing time with my people, it means the clock is ticking louder now. And I can’t pause it.

It means losing time with my friends.

This week in AP Lang, my dearest friend shared a personal essay, a beautiful piece filled with stories about us. And for the first time since kindergarten, I had to look down for a second as a tear blotted my eyes at school.

I didn’t realize how deeply nostalgia could tug at your heart until I sat there, trying to halt the tears tickling me. I didn’t know a memory could sting and soothe at the same time.

I looked across the desk at her.

“Why are you staring?” she giggled.

“Because you’re cute,” I giggled back.

But what I really wanted to say was:

Because I’m proud of you. Proud of the person you were. Proud of the person you're becoming. Proud of the person you dream of becoming. Proud of every small, brave dream you’ve ever whispered out loud.

And in that moment, my mind flooded with memories of our six years of laughter and chaos.

Gratitude for her.

For the way she makes the world brighter just by being in it.

For the jokes that only we find funny.

For the judgmental sideways glances we share when someone doesn’t get our weird conversations.

For the time we ran barefoot through snow in between debate rounds, belting the Star-Spangled Banner while our minds were consumed with anxiety over final results.

For snorting sugar packets in an Olive Garden and shrieking at the sharp sting.

For giggling in a sketchy alley while planning a jumpscare.

For practicing tai-chi between gallery volunteering shifts.

For sprinting through a dark museum at closing time.

For inhaling helium until we sounded like chipmunks on a sugar rush.

For lying down together on a dirty competition floor, "stargazing" at the dotted ceiling

But more than anything, I'm grateful for the times when we weren't laughing.

How she comforted me when I was puking from anxiety and stress.

How she listened to every ramble of complaints I had, without ever complaining herself.

She’s my person.

My reminder that friendship isn’t about the quantity of time, but the quality of soul.

And I’m terrified that college won’t bring me another her.

Another soul who feels like home.

Someone who squeezes into the tight backseat because she knows I get carsick.

Someone who matches my energy effortlessly.

Someone who listens to every word, celebrates every win, mourns every loss.

There are no words big enough to hold the love I have for her.

But it's not just friends I'm bracing to leave.

It’s my mom, too.

She’s been in Asia for the past three weeks, and she’s coming back soon. Today, I deep-cleaned our refrigerator for her, gagging and vomiting four times in the process (ancient food fossils were found and properly mourned).

I’ve always had a horrible gag reflex, but I powered through, because I imagined how tired she’d be when she returned. And if I can do anything to make her life a little easier, I will try, because that's what she's always done for me.

During her trip, she sent me photos with her family. And even though the images were sweet, I felt a strange twist of guilt.

She left them to be here for me and my brother.

She built her life around ours- around me. And now I’m about to leave?

Was it worth it for her? Did I live up to the dream she once held in her arms when I was just a baby? Was I worth leaving familiarity and home?

Sometimes at night, I just look at her.

Really look.

Were those wrinkles always there?

Did her hair always have that much gray?

And I’m scared- scared that when I come back, time will have left even more traces on her face. Scared that I’ll miss things I didn’t even know I was supposed to notice.

Scared that in chasing my own dreams, I’m walking further away from hers.

Being a senior is terrifying.

Sometimes I wonder, what kind of 17-year-old gets this attached?

To friends.

To family.

To the comfort of a house that smells like sesame oil, pine needles, and lavender detergent.

And today, I realized.

The lucky kind.

Only the luckiest seniors get to have so much love, so much joy in their lives that the thought of leaving brings fear.

I don't think there's a way to avoid this fear, but for now, it's May 2025. I still have time.

cheers,

Emma